51. Chapter Fifty-One Abby

Chapter Fifty-One: Abby

T hank fuck Nathan had given me his panic room codes…because they were the same ones he used for all those locked drawers and cabinets at 118 California.

Once it had been my prison; now, it was our salvation.

Blood dripped onto the white tile of the kitchen floor, a stark reminder that I was miles away from any sterile hospital bed. My fingers, slick with red, fumbled through the first aid kit on the counter. Justin stood by, his hands hovering, ready to assist but clearly out of his element in this grim parody of domesticity.

"Bandages…antiseptic…" I muttered, cataloging items more for focus than necessity. Pain flared in my abdomen, an insistent throb that punctuated each breath. The wound needed more care, a professional's touch, but for now, it was just Justin and his boyfriend watching me in this sterile little apartment.

It was perfectly clean–as if I hadn't been held captive, brutalized, and pleasured here until I didn't know where Nathan ended and I began.

He had to be okay.

"Here, let me help." Justin's voice was steady, belying the worry in his brown eyes as he took the antiseptic from my shaky grasp. Carefully, he dabbed at the edges of the wound, his movements tentative but precise. Unlike his brother, violence wasn't woven into the fabric of his existence. He was a student, dragged into this life by blood, not choice. That much was easy to see.

"Ow, damn..." I winced, gritting my teeth while he worked. The blade had really just nicked me—no organs hit, just flesh—but it was a bleeder alright.

"Abby, you need stitches," Justin said, echoing my own assessment.

"I know," I responded, pain sharpening my voice. "I'll do it myself."

"Are you sure?" He looked at me, concern and disbelief mingling in his expression. "We could call Lily, she's a med student…"

"There's no time." I met his gaze, hoping to convey confidence I was far from feeling. "And I want her to stay put and safe. Not involved with us. Not right now."

I'd stitched up injuries before, taken all the basic field medicine classes; a shallow knife wound was no problem.

Except, of course, when the skin you're sewing is your own.

"Hand me the needle and thread," I instructed, preparing to cross yet another line in the long list of things I never thought I'd do. Justin complied, placing them in my hand with a steadiness that contradicted the chaos of our situation.

Taking a deep breath, I threaded the needle, the eye winking mockingly up at me. This was it—time to add amateur surgeon to my ever-growing resume.

Fuck, there was no training for this back at Quantico.

"Damn it," Derek muttered, glancing over with a queasy expression before quickly averting his eyes. "I think I need to sit down."

"Go ahead–and keep the cat away so she doesn't get a taste for blood." I didn't look up from the task at hand, focusing on the rhythmic pull of the needle through my flesh. The sting was sharp with each entry and exit, but I welcomed the pain—it kept my mind off the mess we were in.

"Here, let me help with that," Justin offered, stepping closer to assist. His hands, clearly more accustomed to textbooks than triage, trembled slightly as he handed me a pair of small scissors to snip the thread. I nodded my thanks, tying off the last stitch with practiced efficiency.

"Bandages?" I asked, holding out my hand while pressing down on the wound with the other to stem any residual bleeding.

"Right, bandages," Justin said, his voice tight. He rummaged through the first aid kit, finding a roll of gauze and a packet of adhesive strips. He passed them to me, his hands shaking slightly.

"Thanks," I murmured, wrapping the bandage tightly around the stitched-up skin. My hand was steady, even if my heart wasn't. There were too many unknowns, too many variables we couldn't control.

But this, standard first aid, I could do it with my eyes closed. Just wish I didn't have to do it right after I'd gotten stabbed.

"Good as new," I said, trying for a lighthearted tone. The joke fell flat in the heavy silence of the safehouse. But we were alive, and for now, that would have to be enough.

I finished securing the bandage with a piece of tape and flexed my hand, testing the give. Pain throbbed at the edges of the makeshift dressing, but it was manageable—a dull ache rather than the sharp bite from before.

"Nice work," Derek muttered from his seat against the wall, his face still a shade paler than usual. He wasn't cut out for this; neither of them were.

Justin paced the length of the room, a frown creasing his brow as he glanced my way. His steps halted, and he locked eyes with me. "You're not just an art history student, are you?" The question hung heavy in the air, a challenge wrapped in genuine curiosity.

"No," I admitted, meeting his gaze squarely. "I'm an FBI agent."

His reaction was a beat too late, registering shock, then suspicion. It was clear that this revelation shifted the ground beneath us, adding layers to an already complicated situation. But there was no time for second-guessing now. The truth was out, and we had to deal with it.

"Does Nathan know?" Justin's voice cut through the silence, sharp as broken glass.

"Yes," I replied, the word heavy on my tongue. "He knows."

Derek stumbled to his feet, a mix of confusion and fear in his eyes. "What the hell is going on?"

Justin ran a hand through his hair, his usual composure fraying at the edges. "Family business," he said with a hollow laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Turns out our family tree is more like a noose. We're Triad, Derek."

The humor was dark, the kind that leaves a bitter taste. It bounced around the safehouse walls, and for a moment, we all shared a grim smile, acknowledging the absurdity of it all.

"Triad?" Derek echoed, his voice a notch higher than usual. "As in organized crime? Your family?"

"Yep," Justin confirmed, dropping onto a chair like his strings had been cut. "And there's no getting out. Not for me, not for Nathan."

"You said your father was in real estate!"

"He is," Justin replied. "Real estate fraud, specifically…and some other stuff."

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "Great," he said. "Anything else I need to know? What about this place?"

"A safehouse," I answered quickly, too quickly. I avoided his gaze, not wanting him to see the memories that place conjured up—memories of cold floors and colder hands, of desperation and defiance. How Nathan had almost snuffed out my life within these very walls.

As I thought of Nathan, though, I realized he should've been in contact a while ago…and that sent a tremor of icy dread shooting through me.

It didn't matter what had happened here.

I loved him and I needed him to be okay.

I glanced at the battered phone in my hand, its screen a patchwork of cracks and smudges. The digital clock taunted me with each minute that slipped by; Nathan should have called hours ago. I could almost feel the weight of the sun pressing down on the safehouse, even through the heavy tint of the windows.

"Any word from my brother?" Derek's voice cut through the silence, his eyes darting between Justin and me.

"Nothing yet," I murmured, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. The tension knotted in my stomach, winding tighter with every unanswered question hanging in the air.

"Shouldn't he have called by now?" Justin asked, his tone trying to mask concern with casual interest. But his posture betrayed him, shoulders tense, hands clasped too tight.

"Yes." The single word hung between us, thick with implications I didn't dare voice.

My thumb hovered over the call button, the decision gnawing at me. Before I could press it, the shrill ring of an incoming call sliced through my hesitation. Nathan's face filled the cracked screen and relief surged through me, quickly chased by a fresh wave of anxiety.

"Finally," I breathed, swiping to answer. "Nathan?"

"Abby?" His voice was a taut wire, fraying at the edges. "Are you okay? Are you still with Justin?"

"Hey," I said, forcing calm into my voice as I glanced at Justin's rigid form beside me. "Yeah, we're both here. Some people came by looking for him, but we handled it. We're safe."

There was a pause on the line, long enough for doubt to snake through my chest. He wasn't saying anything, and the silence was more than enough proof that things hadn't gone as planned. "What's going on, Nathan? Talk to me."

"Ma's dead," he said, and those two words fell like a shroud over the room.

My hand flew to my mouth, the shock of Nathan's words etching a look on my face I couldn't hide. The air seemed to suck out of the room as Justin caught one glimpse of my reaction and crumbled, his body folding in on itself like he had been hit by an invisible blow. Derek was there in an instant, arms wrapping around him, a silent pillar of support.

"But are you…are you safe?"

"Yes," he said. "For now. I want to meet back at the house, we need a plan. Ba's unhinged; we need to do something."

"Okay," I said. "We'll be there."

Suddenly, the discordant wail of sirens bled into our conversation, and my heart dropped into my stomach. They sounded too close, too urgent.

"Nathan, what's happening?" My voice was sharp with fear.

"Ah, just my luck," he replied, the calm in his voice at odds with the chaos closing in on all of us. "I'm being pulled over."

The tires crunched against the gravel shoulder as Nathan pulled over, the sound piercing through the phone and into my anxious heart. "Nathan?" I said, my voice laced with a mix of desperation and dread.

In the background, I could hear the shuffle of movement, his breath steady but too careful, too measured. It was the sound of a man who had been in tight spots before, who knew how to wear the mask of calm when the storm raged just beneath the surface.

"Good afternoon, officer." The words were smooth, practiced, that charming tone he used that could make you believe he was just another guy, not the eldest son of a Triad boss.

I held the phone tighter, my other hand gripping the edge of the table as if I could somehow hold onto him through the line. My eyes flicked to Justin and Derek, the former's face a mask of confusion and pain, the latter trying to be the rock we all needed but couldn't find within ourselves at that moment.

"Please step out of the car, sir," came the next voice, authoritative and cold, sending an icy jolt of fear through me. It wasn't a request; it was an order—one that carried the weight of the badge behind it, the power to unravel everything we had been fighting for.

Panic clawed at my chest, a wild thing trying to break free. I could feel the precarious balance we had been maintaining start to tip, threatening to plunge us all into chaos. Nathan had always been the one in control, the one who could navigate the treacherous waters we found ourselves in. If he was stepping out of that car, if he was no longer in the driver's seat…what did that mean for all of us?

"I'm sorry, but–do you have a warrant?" Nathan's voice said.

The phone suddenly dropped with a thud.

I could hear the struggle–wished I was there, though I didn't know what the hell I would be able to do. I could hear him fighting, but he was clearly outnumbered, more sirens blaring in the background.

This wasn't just a traffic stop.

It was something else entirely.

"Get on the ground! Hands where I can see them!" The barked commands were like punches to my gut, shattering my already fragile composure. I couldn't see it, but I didn't need to—the scene played out vividly in my mind. My Nathan, whom I had always seen as strong and invincible, now reduced to this…it was all so wrong.

"Nathan?" His name slipped out, barely audible, a desperate plea for some kind of connection in this darkness that threatened to consume us both. But there was no response; just silence on the other end of the line.

And then came the final blow, the words that sealed our fate ringing hollowly through the speaker. The words sounded foreign, strange.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Tyler Matthews."